


Vandor

by treetracer



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Din/Cara, F/M, Fear, Feelings Realization, Feels, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Mandalorian trash right now, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Panic, Romance if you squint, Whump, post season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treetracer/pseuds/treetracer
Summary: "Din looked back over his shoulder and she stood there, face obscured by the black cowl and hat drawn down past her brows. The subtle red glow of the ancient chemlight in her hand cast long, unsettling, shadows over her features."
Relationships: Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 103





	Vandor

**Author's Note:**

> Notes at the end.

He looked down to the odd orb in his hand, turned it over, its sides gleamed iridescent red in the pale light of the moon – inscriptions. 

“A religious relic,” he said as he held it up for Cara Dune to see from where she trekked behind him. 

“Pay day,” she clipped through the thick fabric of her cowl. Din placed the item in a pouch at his side and trekked onward, through the drifts of snow before his companion. I was quiet in the dense woods, no bird, or wild thing stirred and he was glad for it. Their mission had been a difficult one but it would pay well, he’d have money for more supplies, minor repairs to his ship, and fuel for the next stop even with the split in pay. 

He glanced back at Dune and then forward again. They’d been traveling together again for some time after having met, by chance, on Crul. He had been attempting to lay low for a short time while he gathered supplies and gleaned information from the locals. She’d been chasing a bounty when their paths had crossed again. The rest had been natural; the transition to her back on his ship and at his side in combat. Without words they had become a team. Din, despite himself, felt more at ease with her there – knowing he wasn’t alone, knowing that, for a time, he wouldn’t be left to his thoughts so often. 

It was still a good distance back to the ship; the woods had been too dense to get any closer to his point of interest and it was nearly a 4-hour hike back to the Crest. The deep snow did nothing to aid in their journey. 

The moon climbed higher in the sky and the temperature continued to sink. Clouds moved in and drove the Mandalorian and Shock Trooper deeper into darkness. Snow began to fall. 

A chill, unlike any he’d felt in a long time, entered his bones. He shivered. “Dune,” he spoke into the vast woods before him. Silence answered him back, long and audible, like the sound of the snow. Din looked back over his shoulder and she stood there, face obscured by the black cowl and hat drawn down past her brows. The subtle red glow of the ancient chemlight in her hand cast long, unsettling, shadows over her features. 

“Dune,” he spoke again and she exhaled, a plume of steam rose into the atmosphere. Worry creeped into his chest as she stood there, unmoving, arms wrapped around herself in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. He turned to face her completely and stepped toward her. 

“Mando...” she trailed weakly. He swallowed the knot that formed in his throat, his instincts told him something was wrong and that they may still be too far from his ship if things were. The chemlight dimmed, its battery drained by the cold. Dune teetered on her feet, all strength fading from her normally strong frame, and Din closed the gap between them, caught her when she began to fall, and drew her close. 

Frantic, he searched her body, looking for the wound he now knew she’d been hiding. Singed cloth and the glisten of something dark under the dying illumination of the chemlight answered him. He tore off his thick glove and gingerly touched the wound. It was cold and sticky, not warm like he’d expected it to be. This was old. 

“How long?” he asked, more to himself than to her. He looked at her, wiped his blood-stained hand in the snow, then slipped it under her cowl to feel her neck. “How long, Dune?” he asked, louder, more frustrated that she hadn’t said anything though he knew that she wouldn’t. She was still warm but her pulse was weak. His heart seized and he bit his tongue against the welling frustration and desperation. She couldn’t die. Not here. Not over something so trivial in the grand scheme of things. 

The Mandalorian stood, heart pounding in his ears, and drew her up and across his shoulders and began to run. 

Dead weight was always heavier. Cara’s weight felt unwieldy but not because of her mass so much as it was the burden of what this meant. What it meant if he couldn’t get back to the Crest. What it meant if he couldn’t wake her again. What it meant if he lost her. He panted, pushed his legs harder, plowed through the accumulating drifts of snow, and burst through the trees into a small, snowy, meadow. The Razor Crest stood, silent, imposing, cold and welcoming. He sprinted toward it, the burning in his chest and legs, his whole body, became numb as he closed the distance between himself and the haven of the starship. 

He ran up to the side of it, desperately punched in the code to the door, and nearly fell through the entrance as it hissed open. 

Warm air struck him as he entered and, in the back of his mind, he was glad he’d left the ships life-support idling for the sake of the Child. The inside of the ship would have been just as cold as the outside had he not. The Mandalorian quickly moved to the cot bolted to the side of his ship in the space he’d once hung carbonite frozen criminals. He folded it down and deposited Cara onto it, gently, hurriedly. There was little time to waste as he darted to the meager supply closet, still panting, drenched in sweat, and scrambled through the supply closet. A therma-blanket and antiseptic, but he couldn’t find the Bacta spray, something he’d stocked after the events of Nevarro. There had been a single dose left of the few that he had purchased. 

Frustrated he grabbed gauze and hurried back to Cara, knelt beside her, and contemplated a moment on what he should do. He set his things to the side, tore off the heavy cowl and cumbersome coat he wore and tossed them somewhere in the bay. His gloves came next, they were thick and clumsy compared to his normal armor, something made worse by his cold, numb, fingers. With freed hands he removed Cara’s cowl, thick hat, thin but warm coat, and, with the flick of his knifes lethal blade, he split the fabric of her shirt. 

Her wound lay exposed, gruesome, in the warm light of his space cruiser. It was far worse than he’d thought it had been. Had the awkward position of her body over his shoulders made it worse? The jarring gait of his run? The cold? A muted hiss of a door off to his left drew him out of his stupor. Soft, quiet, footsteps across the cool metal of the floor drew his gaze to the Child. With its hands, so small and delicate, it rubbed the sleep from its eyes and blinked up at him. The sight tore at Din’s heart in a way that he didn’t want to voice. He turned back to Cara and with unskilled, rough, hands he began to clean the wound, examine it, and pray, to whatever force was out there, that his friend would not die. 

She’d bled a lot. Her features too sallow, too cold, to be right and, though a feint pulse pounded below the skin of her neck, it was weak. What seemed like hours had passed as he worked on her; though the Mandalorian knew it hadn’t been more than a few minutes. Antiseptic wash streamed onto the floor, soaked his knees in blood and chemicals, as he worked. She’d not moved, not flinched, just laid there on the cot – cold, as the grave, while he mended her. 

“Do not die, Dune,” he hissed through clenched teeth. Anger. Anger at not noticing her wound, anger at not being more prepared for emergencies. She’d been armored, yes, but what was her armor to his Beskar? Nothing more than thin plastic. The carbon enforced fabric of her shirt had been useless against whatever had torn through her side. Din cursed, felt his fingers trip under his hurried commands and he felt his stomach begin to sink. This was not a battle he could win. 

The Child was at his side then, with its tiny, three-digit hand out stretched toward the Shock Trooper. The Mandalorian looked to it, slowed what he was doing, pulled away, hands marred with deep crimson and desperation. He had seen the child do this before, use some unseen ability to heal wounds but this was deep, worse than Karga’s injury on Nevarro, and he did not think the Child could heal her. Din nearly stopped the Child, fear that he’d lose both the Youngling as well as his friend made him hesitate – but he was human. He knew this feeling, this sense of desperation that came with knowing you could not stop the inevitable, that clouded his judgement and let him be selfish and wholly illogical. Greef, he supposed, did that; made people do foolish things. 

The small child closed its eyes, as it had before, took hold of something the Mandalorian couldn’t see, and squeezed. Din looked from his charge to Cara, with uncertainty. Skin, angry and tattered, began to mend, veins, sinew, and muscle closed and then... she inhaled. It was a deep breath, that filled his own lungs with hope that she would make it, that she would live and he would not just be left with memories tarnished by pain. 

Cautiously he leaned forward, pressed his bloodied fingers to her pulse and counted. It was still weak but far stronger than it had been and he exhaled heavily. Din looked down to the Child, who stared, sleepily, back up at him. The Child did not immediately fall into slumber and Din wondered if it was getting stronger 

“Thank you,” he said then, carefully, picked the child up, held him against his armored chest, and took him to the small pram he’d salvaged and made new. Carefully he laid the small being into a nest of blankets, handed it the metal ball it was fond of, and closed the dome, allowing it to rest. 

Din took a moment to wash his hands of the dried and drying blood. He turned the tap to warm and soaked a clean rag before he, cautiously, removed his helmet. The air in the ship felt blessedly cool against his face and he inhaled, deeply, filling his lungs with air unhindered by the visor of his helmet. Quickly he wiped his face with the rag then the interior of his helm, didn’t bother to glance in the mirror, and pulled the helm back over his head. He felt somewhat human again with the small gesture. 

The Mandalorian wet several more rags and walked back over to Cara, her breathing was steady and her color was coming back, slowly. This eased his nerves and he knelt to clean her skin of the gore that lingered from her wound. Carefully he shifted her so that he could wipe the cot below so that she didn’t lie in antiseptic and blood. He wrapped the therma-blanket around her, concerned about her temperature, before he took care of his ship. 

No one ever talks about the aftermath of saving a life or trying to mend a wound. No one talks about the permeating stench of medical grade chemicals mixed with blood, perfuming the room, and sinking into the very soul of those who live through it. 

Din cleaned the room and changed out of his blood-soaked suit and donned an aged jumpsuit of deep green. The lack of armor made him feel vulnerable despite being deep in the forests of Vandor away from civilization and anything of note. Exhaustion pulled at him even as he removed Cara’s tattered shirt and replaced it with one of his own. A deep seeded respect for the privacy of others kept him from digging through Dune’s things for a change of her own clothes. Her pants were soaked at the hip in blood but the place was small and he didn’t want to think about the conversation that would be had if she woke up in his pants. He removed her boots instead, changed her soaked socks for the last clean pair he had, and sat on the edge of the cot for a moment to consider her. 

How close he had come to losing her. How close he still might be. When he had been dying, she’d been there, desperate and relentless as she tried to reassure him that he would be fine. That he should come with them. That he should keep living. He’d realized, in the moments before the IG had removed his helmet and saved him, that he wanted to live and that dying was terrifying. He had people to live for, a child, a friend, a mission. 

Din reached out with a bare hand and touched it to Cara’s cheek, feeling her temperature, and was disheartened to feel she was still cool. The therma-blanket wasn’t working like he’d hoped. He stood and checked over the ship, secured doors, made sure the Child was sleeping, and turned off the lights. A handful of small red and orange lights remained on, indicating power setting, and information that could not be ignored. Din returned to Cara’s cot, another blanket in hand, and sat. He adjusted the crinkly fabric of the thermal blanket before he added a simple wool one atop. Mindful of her injury, he laid her on her side and slipped into the cot behind her. 

It was a tight fit and, for a moment, it was awkward as he tucked himself against her. The cot had been built in Crul and, as such, large enough to fit one of the sizable locals but neither he nor Cara were small people. Years of battles, wars, and survival had built their frames to weather the times. Din drew her close, felt the chill of her skin through the fabric and knew that skin to skin was best but this would work. He laid his helmed head down on the pillow that was sew down on the cot and sighed. His bones settled as the day caught up with him and the adrenaline finally ebbed into nothingness. It left him feeling hallow, used, and indescribably exhausted. 

Despite being drained, however, the helmet dug in places that were not conducive to sleep. He considered his plight, how every cell in his body screamed for respite, but the awkward cock of his head and the pressure on his temple prevented him from rest. The Child, he reasoned, would not be up for some time and even should it wake it would not be able to slip from its pram as the dome was closed. Cara would likely not wake until well into the afternoon but if she did wake before him, did he trust her not to look? He thought of all she’d done, how far they’d come, and the risks they took for one another, the trust that came with those positions. How they were life and death and nothing less. 

Carefully, he removed his helmet and placed it on the ground behind him, within reach, should he need it swiftly. He was vulnerable now, exposed, and he wasn’t sure how much he liked this, how much he was willing to trust another living creature. Din drew the blankets up over their shoulders, pressed his face against the back of her neck, breathed in her living scent, and relaxed into her growing warmth. _She’s going to live_ , he thought as his body pulled him down into a deep and dreamless slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully I stayed true to character. These two are so complex that they're difficult to slip into, I think. I don't see enough shipping of these two but even here I didn't make it explicitly "romantic" but I do think they work SO well as a pair. I'm definatly going to be writing more of these two in the future! Please leave come constructive comments below or just a simple hello <3 Stay sharp my friends.


End file.
